Legitimacy
by Elle Reez
Summary: War is brewing. The queen's dead and the hero left more than a decade ago. Hyrule is divided. This is the story of a drafted soldier.
1. Chapter 1

The fog choked Castleton's stone walls. Dim lanterns, two hung on each wooden, battered carriage, were barely visible, even when the naked eye was in close proximity. In front of each carriage was a line of soldiers, ranging from those with bright, youthful enthusiasm and others with worn, veteran eyes. Each soldier carried nothing but a leather pouch held upon their shoulders, each bag holding cigars, mints and prized possessions.

One only held the necessities-a comb, two pairs of light, military issued clothing, and a set of standard stationary. Conlan did not care to be reminded of his home. Not yet.

In front of each line of conscripted soldiers stood a soldier of a higher rank. Each one held a roll of parchment with carefully inked names, calling the next person in line to check them in. Each one sent them to a carriage that would send them to their fate.

The man in front of the boy's line spit tobacco the ground before yelling for the next soldier. Conlan ran his fingers through his hair, hoping it looked matted enough, and walked steadily to the man.

"Name?" the man asked.

"Smith." The man flipped through the list.

"First?"

"Conlan."

The man stopped flipping through the list. His beady eyes studied the boy closely. "You from around Castleton?"

Conlan nodded.

"Where from?"

"From the outskirts. Near the south wall," he answered steadily.

The man smacked on his tobacco. "Fancy accent. You a highborn or something?" Before Conlan could reply, the man continued on a rant. "Rotten, them highborns are, getting out easy from this fight." Conlan mussed his hair again. "You're in carriage fifteen, second to last on the left. Next!"

Conlan walked quickly to the carriage, still uneasy from the conversation. He shook his head. Who he was didn't matter. Once he sat on the splintered bench, he would, from then on, be known as Conlan Smith.

He was one of the last to sit on the carriage's bench, and the last to see Hyrule's stone cold pride disappear in the foggy distance.


	2. Chapter 2

Set.

Two swordsmen waited for the other to move. Each step, each jerk, each twitch, was noted by the other with narrowed eyes. The first move was a gamble. He who moved first commenced the fight.

Conlan stepped closer to the man, but not close enough to get near the opponent's sword. To him, the other man's movements were too obvious. He was well-versed in combat strategy; it was a classic, careful approach, not faulty but also obvious to a well-seasoned fighter. Conlan relaxed his shoulders, bent his knees and narrowed his eyes. If the fight went according to his own plan, he could finish it quickly. Conlan waited for the first opening, taking a breath with each steady step he took.

_Clang!_

The man countered, a rude snicker escaping his lips. The fight became a dance of sword against sword, man against man, the music being a symphony of clashing metal and discordant rhythms. Conlan was slightly miffed because the older man was able to counter each of his successive attacks with such quickness and ferocity. Still, the fight would still be easy to win, much like the other duels in training. Dueling lessons in the past gave him an advantage and made every fight like a game to him-like a chess game of physical strength.

_Clang. Clang._

The swords moved faster. Conlan took two steps forward, gaining the upper hand. He saw the man's knuckles tighten over the battered, grimy hilt of his sword.

_Clang!_

With one more swing, the sword flew out of the man's hand. In half a second, Conlan had forced him on the ground. He pointed the sword at the man's neck.

The man stared straight at the splintered tip of the shiny sword. He grinned, his two front teeth missing from his smile.

"Where'd you learn that from, boy?" Conlan sheathed his sword and helped the man back up.

"My father was a blacksmith," Conlan said. "I can't make a sword worth a damn as well as he can, but I sure do know my way with one."

As the man clapped Conlan on the back, he heard commotion in the crowd. A giant man with wide shoulders and a dirty face shoved his way to the front, nearly knocking down a raven-haired boy who was a few years younger than Conlan.

"My turn," he said, his sly smirk making Conlan shudder.

His previous opponent wished Conlan luck and stepped out of the ring. The giant man took his place. Conlan set himself on the opposite side.

Someone announced the fight to commence. The two circled around the ring, Conlan noting every footstep he took.

He spotted what he thought was an opening and attacked. The opponent blocked it easily. It didn't bother him; Conlan knew he could recover easily. The man swung, but Conlan avoided it with a graceful sidestep.

"Halt!" Conlan looked down. His foot was outside the ring.

"Rookie," the opponent sneered. Conlan narrowed his eyes and went back to his place.

Conlan barely heard the announcer start a new round. Now understanding his opponent's patterns, he waited, and countered the next few swings. Time began to slow down. His mind raced. Even with his own knowledge, he and his opponent of them were well-matched. He blocked the man's every attack while he tried spotting an opening. Eyes narrowed in concentration, he found one.

With one last swing from the opponent, Conlan began his attack again. Each move became faster and faster. His assault pushed him out of the ring. The opponent glared, his face nastier than it was moments ago. The round began. The opponent attacked first, but Conlan blocked all of his swings. Just after two rounds, he was predictable. With a final jump slash, the man fell to the ground.

Other soldiers came to the ring and clapped Conlan on the back. A few helped the other opponent up, but then the man shoved them away and stomped away from the ring.

"Back to the camp, all of you," one of the lieutenants commanded. "Breakfast starts in fifteen minutes."

The other soldiers followed the lieutenant's orders. Conlan stayed behind for a few minutes to remove the dented armor he was wearing and to put away stray weapons laying on the ground.

As he began to leave, he ran into the second opponent from earlier. The dirty look on his face was almost menacing.

"I want a rematch," he said.

"Now?" Conlan said, perturbed. His stomach rumbled in protest.

The man moved past him by ramming into Conlan's shoulder. "Now," he demanded, grabbing one of the swords that Conlan had just put away. Conlan rolled his eyes, but followed him anyways. This was common, he noted, especially among cockier soldiers. He learned that it was best to humor them with another duel or face issues with the rest of the command, such as slight ridicule or missing underwear.

The two once again stood opposite of each other in the ring, this time without the audience. The two circled around the ring again. The opponent seemed to watch him more intently, not making a move to attack him at all. Believing it was taking too long, Conlan attacked first. The man blocked him with ease. The two began their dance again, a dance that Conlan was now overly familiar with. It was simple; exploit his weakness.

The man swung his sword erratically and carelessly this time. Conlan continued attacking, his victory so very near. He barely saw the glint in the man's eye before he felt a blow to his chest. He doubled over and fell to the ground. As Conlan coughed heavily, the man leaned over, his breath smelling rotten.

"The army ain't a place for runts like you," he said. Conlan glared at him. One thing Conlan struggled with in these fights were his own honor. Before he joined the army, he learned that there were rules in swordfighting as well as honor and integrity. Here, dirty tactics, which were easy to execute but also difficult for him to read, were welcomed in the army. Lieutenants turned their heads away in these situations, believing that these were ultimately necessary in this war. Conlan couldn't ever bring himself to play dirty, but made up well enough in skill to be one of the best soldiers in the company.

"You won how many fights against me?" Conlan retaliated, trying to get back up. The man crushed him to the ground with his foot. "That one out of twenty?" The man pressed his foot harder on his back.

"That's enough, Bulwark. Unless, of course, you wish to challenge me?" The man-apparently called Bulwark-put his foot down. A man of higher rank approached them, one of the only leaders who still believed there was honor in this war.

Bulwark glared at him. "Think you can tell me what to do, Perseus?" he sneered.

He raised an eyebrow at him. "That's Sir Perseus to you, private. Do I need to remind you again that I am still your superior?"

Bulwark scoffed. "Need I remind you that I don't care about your low-class ass being on your high horse? Promotion got to your head, didn't it?" Sir Perseus stood straighter and narrowed his eyes, but didn't say anything. Bulwark walked away, but not before shoving Perseus with his shoulder.

Sir Perseus sighed. He reached out a hand to Conlan, who took it and stood up. His stomach still hurt.

"I almost had him," Conlan said.

Sir Perseus gave him a long look. "Remember that 'almost' means dead, private. Go to breakfast before it ends."

Conlan walked to the mess hall, which was nothing but a large canopy hanging over wooden tables. The rest of the company was in a rush to get their food not only because of morning training, but also because they wanted to read the letters they received. Mail day was always during the first breakfast of each week. Soldiers would receive letters and gifts from their fathers, mothers, younger siblings, whomever. Some would look at their letters mindlessly or munch on pieces of chocolate mailed to them while others would scurry off in private to read whatever raunchy message his significant other had sent that week. It was the only day they were able to remember that something existed outside the war zone, that there was something else to fight for.

Conlan never received such mail. Mail day was just another day in the barracks for him. He only received a letter on one occasion from his younger brother. Confused but curious, he broke the red wax seal and removed a piece of rich, heavy parchment, only to find a single sentence written in the center with beautiful calligraphy saying, "Having fun playing soldier?"

Conlan crumpled it and tossed it in a fire. He never received another letter after that.

Once he made it inside the mess hall, he grabbed a tray and went in line to get his food. As usual, everyone was served something that looked like a mix of oats and dirt and tasted like rough stew. Soldiers' gruel was what everyone called it. Conlan's stomach turned when he first ingested it, but he slowly became accustomed to the bland rations.

Finding a place to sit was the most difficult part. Conlan took the next seat he found, one that another soldier had abandoned seconds before.

"Nice fight," the man next to him commented, lighting a cigar.

It was the man he fought before Bulwark. Conlan gave him a small smile. "Thanks, Old Man," he said. Everyone called him Old Man, even though he was barely over 40 years old. Not many drafted soldiers were under the age of 35, but Old Man was a seasoned fighter. Rumor had it that his first taste of bloodlust in the war two decades ago made him sign up for the next one. Conlan considered him a friend-his only friend in the company.

"You remind me of my daughter, you know?" Old Man said.

Conlan looked at him strangely. "You have a daughter?"

Old Man nodded. "Girl had spunk and no patience for sitting around and doing nothing. She signed up for this here war. Man, she was excited to join the army after I told her about my stint in the last one." Old Man took another drag. Cigars were a dessert after any meal, the only alternative being overripe fruit. "A week before she was gonna be sent off, them army doctors found a disease in her left leg. They amputated it a month later, and she was sent home. That's why I'm here."

After a brief pause, the old man continued. "War is like life, boy. It could happen anywhere to anyone."

"How's your daughter doing now?" Conlan asked.

The old man's eyes misted over. "Should be. She's with the queen now."


End file.
